Blast from the Past, Part I
by Jada115
Summary: Miranda has a visitor from the past who troubles Alan. Sequel to "Dream a Little Dream" and "Happy Birthday Flamingo I&II." Based on David E. Kelley's characters.


Blast from the Past, Part I

Miranda entered the _Crane, Poole & Schmidt_ building, unusually energetic despite her hangover. She couldn't recall much about last evening, but she knew somehow it had been a good one. She rummaged through her purse as she walked. She wanted to touch up her lipstick again. She wondered how much Alan remembered. He had such a brilliant mind, she was certain he remembered everything. She hoped she didn't do anything that would...

She held up the lipstick. "Yes! Now where is that damned mirror?" she muttered to herself. "I can't ever find anything in this."

She dropped her purse.

She reached for it, but a masculine hand had already grabbed it up and handed it to her.

"Thank you," she chuckled. Miranda stood, flipping her hair to face her Good Samaritan. She froze. "Derek." She choked; a gaping hole swallowed her from within. She was imploding. "What are doing here?" she stepped back, staggered a little.

"I want to talk." He stepped forward, his hands open toward her.

"Well, I don't. I have nothing to say to you." She strode to the elevator and pushed the button several times.

"Look, I'm sorry about everything, baby." He tried to edge his body between her and the elevator.

"I don't care. Don't call me baby. I'm not your baby," she said, her voice low, quivering.

"You're being crazy about this whole thing," he said, grabbing her arm.

She jerked away, struggling to keep her voice low as to not attract attention. "Don't touch me ever …you don't have the right." She added in a harsh whisper, "You're lucky I didn't have you arrested." She tried to reach around him to push the elevator again, but he slammed his hand over the button. "Derek, stay away from me."

"So who was the guy you were with last night?" He put his back against the elevator buttons.

"How do you know about that?" Panic dripped icy down her chest. The elevator door opened.

He blocked the opening.

"Are you followingme?" Her voice sharp.

"Don't get hysterical. I came by your place to see you last night. You weren't there. I waited for you."

Miranda was speechless. Her mind raced, searching for what to do. She could feel her legs gelling beneath her. She backed away from the elevator.

He slowly moved toward her. "So, is this where you work now? That guy at your place last night, you're screwing him now. What is he, some hot shot lawyer?"

"Why?" Alan's said, appearing suddenly like a ghost beside Miranda and Derek. He had to look up at the hulking man. "Do you need one? A lawyer, that is—not a screw. Of course, I could probably arrange one of those for you, too. I have some friends who specialize in just such a thing; but they charge. However, I do have to warn you, it would be much less expensive to get the screw than to get me."

"Look, pal. We're having a conversation." Derek sneered through a smile.

"Derek, just leave!"

Alan glanced at Miranda and said, "He's a swarthy-looking fellow." Then he said to Derek, "I bet you were a pirate for Halloween."

Derek glared at Alan, "You're in the way."

"I have a habit of doing that."

"Look buddy, this doesn't involve you."

"Oh, but it does. You see, I've just witnessed harassment and an assault. She may need me to testify on her behalf, or even better, represent her—either way you will go to jail for a while, though perhaps not as long as you deserve."

Derek grumbled. "Fine I'll leave—for now." He glowered at Miranda, pointing at her, "This isn't over." He stormed away.

"Charming fellow." Alan watched Derek's large frame pass through the door then he turned slowly to Miranda. "A friend of yours?"

Miranda stepped onto the elevator; Alan followed.

He rubbed her back. He could feel her shaking beneath his hand. He whispered, "Are you all right?"

She nodded and then threw her arms around him, hugging him. She didn't care that there were other people in the elevator with them.

Alan hugged her back, smoothing her hair. "It will be okay. I promise." He pulled back to see her face. "Do you trust me?" She lowered her eyes. He held her head steady in his hands. "Miranda," he said, softly, "Look at me."

She lifted her eyes. Her fear radiated and it shot through him. "Do you trust me?"

She nodded, hesitantly.

He kissed her forehead. "Let's go to my office and we'll talk. Okay?"

"Okay."

He held Miranda's elbow to help support her. He could feel she was weak in the knees as they walked down the hall to his office. He closed the door behind them and removed his coat. Miranda gazed out the window over the street below.

Alan pulled out a glass and a bottle of liquor. "I don't normally like to start drinking this early, and I certainly don't condone doing it on a regular basis." He poured her a glass of scotch and offered it to her. "But I think today we'll bend the rules for this special occasion."

She downed the drink then chuckled half-heartedly. "Truth be told, I'm actually still a little tipsy from last night—well, this morning."

He had dark circles under his eyes. She wondered if she looked as tired as he did.

He poured her another. "Then perhaps soon you'll delight me with a few more bars of "Dream a Little Dream."

"Did I do that?"

"You did." He smiled warmly. "I think next time we'll go to a karoke bar. I'd like to hear the whole song."

"Oh God," she chuckled. "I didn't take off any clothing—yours or mine—did I?"

She sat on the couch. He handed the refill to her.

"No, but it wasn't for lack of encouragement on my part," he said, unbuttoning his suit jacket and sitting beside her on the sofa. "In fact, I couldn't even get you to kiss me, much less invite me upstairs." He wouldn't look at her, but stared out across his office.

She was startled. At first she didn't recall, but slowly the events of the evening began to emerge from the fog of her mind. "Oh, Alan, it wasn't personal…I …"

"Of course it wasn't," he said with a tight smile, glancing at her briefly. She sipped half the drink then handed it back to him. He set it on the side table.

He asked with a façade of nonchalance, "Did it have something to do with him?"

"You mean the kiss…well, non-kiss?"

"Yes. Did you notkiss me because of him?"

"No, that wasn't it at all. I promise you."

He waited, locking her eyes with his.

"You want me to tell you."

"I do."

"The truth?"

"Preferably. Let's try it just for fun."

"I was afraid of that." She took a deep breath, collecting her thoughts. "I wanted to kiss you, but I got scared. It was only my second day at work. And you're my boss. I was afraid of…problems."

"But we have a contract. Shirley has a copy."

"I mean because we hardly know each other…and I didn't want it to be…like that_._"

His eyes roved over her face. "That's it?"

"That's it. I swear, Alan." She moved closer to him so she could touch his knee. "That and the fact I was so inebriated; it just wasn't the right time. I hope you understand?"

He nodded. "I do." He set his jaw. "So, perhaps when the time is right, you will let me know?"

She smiled coyly. "You'll be the first. There will be no mistaking when the time comes."

"I look forward to that moment with great," he raked his eyes over her and took a deep breath, sniffing the air for her perfume, "anticipation. Now, tell me about this morning. Is that very large, brutish man your boyfriend?"

"Was." She sat back on the couch, rubbing her forehead. "He was my husband."

Alan's cool resolve crumbled. "You're married." His voice was flat, monotone as he retreated into himself. Anger burned inside him. He knew she was too good to be true. He knew something had to be wrong. He quickly tapped his index finger twice on the couch.

She sat up to look at him directly. "I was. I'm not anymore, technically."

He looked up at the ceiling then back at her. "Technically? It's like pregnancy, Miranda. You either are or you're not—there's no in between."

"You're angry."

He chuckled, exasperated then collected himself. "I have no right to be angry. You and I aren't…together."

She scooted closer and put her hand on his thigh, just a couple inches from his knee, which sent waves of desire through him. "Alan," she said. His groin tightened. He knew she didn't know what she was doing, but he loved the way it felt—the lightness of her hand, the intimacy of the touch; it unnerved him. "Please don't be angry with me."

He swallowed hard, trying to shake the way her touch felt, trying to shake the fantasy unfolding in his head of ravaging her right away.

"Why didn't you say something before?" he said from behind his wall.

"Just hear me out first, please."

His anger surfaced in slow drips. "Fine," he said, removing his arm from the back of the couch, placing both hands in his lap. "Go ahead. Let me hear your story."

"We've been separated for about 8 months. The marriage, for all intents and purposes, was over long before."

"How long were you…have you been… married?"

"Five miserable years, if you count the separation."

"I do."

"Well, the first year wasn't miserable."

"It never is. What happened?" His voice was cold.

"Things were fine at first. We were even thinking about children. Then he lost his job…and his mind."

"What did he do?"

"I met him in college at Colorado. He was studying accounting. I was a double major in literature and history. As soon as we graduated we got married and moved here for his job. I started a graduate program to get a master's degree. He hated it here. But he managed to make some friends—the wrong kind. They all started partying together—too much. He got into drugs, started slacking off at work, making too many costly mistakes for the firm to swallow—so they fired him. He was under intense pressure. We fought constantly. I wanted to leave, but I couldn't. I didn't have any money. He had blown it all. I was forced to drop out of school after only a semester. I resented him for that, blamed him. I didn't have anywhere to go. I was stuck. I knew he was a little wild when we started dating. I guess I figured married life would tame him." She paused dropped her face in her hands. "I'm so stupid for getting involved with him."

"Common assumption. But you're not the stupid one, Miranda. You were in love." His voice had softened.

"Is there a difference?"

Alan smiled. "Usually, no. What about the first time he hit you?"

Miranda was awestruck, "H-how did you know that?"

"I've been doing this a long time, Miranda."

"It was almost three years into the marriage. He had just lost his job a few months prior. He had been out drinking. I yelled at him, told him it was stupid to be drinking away the money when things were so tight without his job. I was angry at him for not finding a job or even trying to find one."

"Understandable."

"Things got heated. He hit me."

"Was this the first time?"

"It was the first time it had been that bad. Prior to that he pushed me a little, grabbed me, shook me—stuff like that. He had never hit me. But it was as if the dam broke after he threw that first punch, and he couldn't stop himself. I thought he would kill me. When a friend of his came by to take him to a basketball game, he stopped the fight."

"Then what happened?"

"He went to the game. I went to the emergency room." Her voice grew hollow and she stared at the floor.

He put his hand on her knee. "I'm sorry to ask you these things, Miranda. I don't want to dredge up painful memories. Do you need a break?"

She blinked and shook her head a little, coming back to the present time.

"I'm okay," she whispered.

"I just need a little more information. Can you do that?"

She nodded.

"Can you elaborate on the damage he did to you?"

"When he was done with me I spent the next 8 hours in the emergency room getting my ribs and arm bandaged and five stitches put in my eye." She leaned in, moving her hair out of her face and pointed to a tiny scar just above her eyebrow. "Of course that doesn't count the other cuts and bruises that didn't require bandages."

Alan breathed deep and clenched his jaw. "Did you go to the police?"

"No."

"Why?" He was stunned.

"I don't know. I just wanted out. So I left. When I got back from the ER, he was still out. I figured it was my one and only shot. So I packed everything I could carry with me right then and left. I'm a military brat. I know how to pack light and move fast." She smiled weakly.

"Why would you not go to the police? Get the abuse on file, get a restraining order?"

"I figured if I went to the cops, he would be arrested and have a record, which would make it harder for him to find a job—that would just make things worse. I went to a shelter; they gave me the number to a lawyer and I had the divorce papers drawn up and sent to him."

"I'm baffled." He chuckled to dilute his anger. "Why on earth did you not go to the police? Men like him don't just go away, Miranda. What were you thinking? The very first time he laid his hands on you in anger, even if it was a shake or a shove, you should have left…right then."

"You sound accusatory."

He closed his eyes and sighed. "You're right." He leaned forward and placed his hand on hers. "I apologize; that's the last thing you need right now. Please understand, when I look at you, it's just very difficult to comprehend," he shook his head and looked away, "any of this…how he could bring himself to…you're, so bright and—and…." He chuckled again, shaking his head in disbelief. He paused, his eyes roaming over her, appreciating her. He set his jaw. "It's just that the woman in front of me now seems vastly different from the one you're describing."

"She is, I guess. But you have to understand, Alan, I believe in love."

His lawyer's mask briefly flickered into a romantic hopefulness.

She continued, "I believe love is a great healer for those who want to be healed. I thought he was desperate to be healed, to get help. I thought he needed me more than ever because he was going through a rough spell. When you love someone you dig in deeper, take root during the storms; you don't disappear like dandelion tuft."

He wondered if she would be so generous when he eventually broke her heart—as he was certain he was destined to do—as he had all the others.

"Even if the storm rips you open and threatens to destroy you completely, I suppose," he said evenly.

"There's the accusation again. Of course not. A sensible person must have some desire for self-preservation. The storm had gotten too big, too out of control; it had already destroyed everything else: the marriage, our love, our intimacy and trust…him. I was next. I couldn't let that happen."

"Did you ever go back?"

"Never. Had no desire to. The storm had raged so wild for so long, something changed in me. I grew vengeful and dark—I broke inside. Things just kept getting progressively worse, culminating in…the fight. I knew he would end up killing me."

"I worked two jobs and started taking paralegal classes on the side, so I could get a decent, steady job fast and get away from him."

"And that's why you're here."

"Yes."

A thin crooked smile played on his lips as he studied her in silence. "That's good news. So, you're still not divorced after all this?"

She shook her head. "I sent the paper work to him three times. Each time he sent it back to my lawyer torn to shreds. He refuses to sign it."

"Have you seen him or had any contact with him at all during this time?"

"No."

"Has he attempted to contact you before today?"

"No. But," she paused, thinking.

"But?"

"He may have been following me all this time. He said he saw you last night at my place. Alan, we didn't get home until after 2 am."

"Yes. I recall."

"There's no reason for him to be at my home at that hour. He said he came to talk to me and when I wasn't there he waited for me to get home."

"Until 2 a.m.?"

"Right."

"He's got to be following me—gives me the creeps." She rubbed the chill from her arms.

"It should." He shot up from the couch and went to his desk, snatching up his briefcase, stuffing files and papers inside. "Have you ever filed a TRO against him?"

"I haven't had a need to."

He stopped and looked at her, puzzled. "He _hit_ you, Miranda."

She stood and approached him. "Yes, but I told him that if he would just go away and leave me alone, grant me the divorce, then I wouldn't prosecute or do anything to blemish his record—so he could get on with his life and I could get on with mine."

"You need a TRO." He grabbed his coat.

"I really don't want to do that, Alan. I made a promise."

"I see. A man shoves and shakes you." He slid into his coat. "You forgive him and stick with him. He hits you. You leave. You tell him you'll protect him as long as he just leaves you alone and gives you a divorce. Do I have it right?" he jerked his collar straight.

She rubbed her forehead.

"Miranda, it seems to me _he_ keeps breaking all the promises, all the rules, and you not only allow it, you protect him for doing so." His voice was tense and angry.

She didn't answer.

He grabbed his briefcase and collected himself, lowering his voice and forcing himself to speak evenly, "Miranda, do you want to go back to him?"

She flinched, stunned. "No, absolutely not—never."

"Do you still love him?" He didn't really need to know, but wanted to.

When she hesitated, he grew nervous.

She searched his face.

"Miranda?"

"No, Alan. No. I want him out of my life."

He suppressed his profound relief at her answer; it was just what he wanted to hear. "Good. Then we get the TRO."

"Isn't it too late? I mean this happened 6 months ago?"

"It's not too late; this morning I witnessed him harassing and assaulting you. He grabbed your arm in an attempt at violence and he made a veiled threat. We will go today to ask a judge for a TRO. Get your things."

She stood, "But will Derek be there?"

"No. The order will last for 10 days. Prince Charming will receive a copy of it; if he steps out of line _once _he goes to jail, which is," he looked down and straightened his tie, "where he needs to be anyway. After the 10 days, we will go before a judge to apply for a permanent protection order—a PRO. Derek has the right to be present for that. Once we get the PRO you have a year of protection." He put on his coat.

"I don't know, Alan; these things are not a guarantee. He knows where to find me."

Alan grabbed her coat from a nearby chair and held it open for her. When she hesitated, he flicked the coat to encourage her into it.

She continued, as she slid into her coat, "Alan, I'm scared. A piece of paper won't stop him from sitting outside my home, watching my every move; it won't stop a bullet." She flipped her hair out. He smoothed it for her.

"Does he have a gun?" He grabbed her purse from the desk drawer and handed it to her.

"Yes."

"I will take care of this. I will make this go away. I will make _him_ go away." His eyes glinted angrily.

"Alan, when he's served that TRO, he's going to flip."

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you, Miranda. Do you understand? I'm _not_ going to let that happen."


End file.
